Not Your Cup of Tea
by Novoux
Summary: Judal is persistently annoying. Sinbad has no sense of excitement or adventure besides pushing papers, pretending to be a king. When one keeps pushing, surely something must result. Rating will go up in later chapters; eventual Sinju.


"Is this actually your idea of fun or are you simply too stupid to do much more than breathe through your mouth?" Polite as always, with the charm of a slobbering drunk. Not that Sinbad is any better—wait a minute, he's not drunk in the first place. There is no place close to being drunk enough to deal with a certain Magi's vicious comments. Sobriety is one of those things that tend to make life a little less pleasing to deal with. Judal is a force of his own.

Maybe if he turns on his side, he can avoid the inevitable barrage of questions, usually snarky comments that don't have too much to do with having an actual purpose. Maybe Judal has an obsession with calling people _old—_ and Sinbad is nowhere close to it so the brat can stop with the names. _Old man_ isn't even close to being accurate, especially coming from a kid who is nineteen or something and acts like a child. His maturity level isn't recorded in children over the age of being able to speak. But Judal speaks his mind plenty well, no help needed and certainly no more guidance required with that.

And just like with children in Sinbad's experience, if ignored, they get pushy. "Hey, idiot, close your mouth. You're stinking up the place." Weak, even for Judal's caliber of insults. If he finally starts getting a clue about proper behavior, it may as well be too late now to congratulate him. Sinbad doesn't particularly see himself as a paragon of manners and behaving one's self, but he can't be the king of Sindria all the time. "What, do you not understand basic insults? You really are hopeless, just like the rest of your little followers."

That pushes too far into the territory of insulting what Sinbad lives for. "Is there a reason you're bothering me, or are you just eager to see me?" With the headache currently plaguing him alcohol does not sound like a good solution. Well, it is now, as long as Ja'far doesn't know and what he doesn't know he doesn't need to. Masrur can keep a secret for him, even though it's not so much a secret as it is stress relief except the stress-inducing things keep coming back to haunt him.

Judal, for instance. "Pah, you really are pathetic like this." Sinbad won't ever have the need to look up when Judal is around, because as soon as Judal's braid hits one of his shoulders he flicks it off without concern to the indignant glare he receives. Floating upside-down beside him in his study won't convince him to do more or less of anything at all. Even if Judal hisses and spits like a wet cat rubbed the wrong way and for all Sinbad cares for Judal could be one. A black, hissing cat that has a sleek build, ( _maybe_ tempting) attitude, and the personality of a humorless old man. "You and your powers you claim to possess, sitting here chained to a desk of all things. Mere shreds of paper with words on them, and you choose _this_ over what the world has yet to be explored?"

Sinbad should know by now that Judal doesn't understand the responsibilities of being a king. Nor will he ever concern himself—as far as Sinbad knows he has quite the reputation of shirking said responsibilities in favor of drinking to dull a headache. He could get medicines from Yamraiha or pester Ja'far to get it for him with a side of a lecture and plenty of tired sighs. He could also deal with Judal, to which there are multiple ways (and the one that works has yet to be discovered) that usually end in Judal's frustration, boredom, or annoying Sinbad until he is distracted.

So yes, the pieces of paper beneath his hand and one hand holding his cheek with another glancing over documents, perhaps trade secrets and never mind that when Judal doesn't care at all for such. It's easy to tell, Judal has no intention of concerning himself with anything that doesn't appeal. Vegetables and paperwork be damned. Which does bring a question, if Judal can't bother to do anything else, then why would he come all the way to Sindria in the first place?

Nonetheless, to pester Sinbad.

Yet with each and every time the question comes up or even the thought of it, Judal dismisses it quickly in one of his many ways. All arrogant and avoiding the question which means either Sinbad is starting to fall into the depravity of Judal's boredom or he's onto something that could be important. Nothing, however, happens to be more important than finishing these papers—with the damn headache—and ignoring Judal to his greatest potential of not caring.

" _This_ is why you're frustrating!" A book falls, more closely to slamming onto the floor than a precarious tip over the edge. Another follows in a similar fashion, thumping against the floor with little care to pertain to whether or not it's a _record book_ and Ja'far will be furious if he sees anything in this room. "You sit here, filing papers all day. Is that all you're good for, Your Dumbness? Or are you truly that pathetic to let something like pieces of paper to deter you from living a little bit?"

Sinbad quietly muses to himself beneath the pounding ache in his skull that Judal may be venting for a different reason than Sinbad's abilities or supposed lack thereof. "What of the matter concerns you? I was not aware you could spare any thought toward me." Judal isn't the only one with a little bit of sass—how's that for an old man—but Sinbad speaks the truth, unlike the weasel in front of him that just won't take the hint to get out already.

The pounding of his headache increases when five more books slam against the floor. Angry enough to pick themselves up and slam their hard covers into Judal's sneer while he vents his anger against parchment. "It doesn't, you moron," he huffs and flips himself over, floating in front of Sinbad's desk and kicking his legs back while his elbows rest on top of neatly filed papers. "But if you're going to waste your powers—from _my_ dungeons on your paperwork, then you should've never tried in the first place. All you do is sit here and waste everything that you've been offered. Stupid idiot king."

"Is this a lesson in selfishness, Judal?" Sinbad humors him, never looking up once and he hasn't for the entire time, sizzling Judal's nerves a little more. "If so, you may need a mirror. Anything reflective will do." Childish banter and yet for the sake of not lessening his headache, facing the facts because Judal will never leave him be. But the only point there is to be made is _not_ Judal's, rather that the words are getting harder to read when they blur and melt into the paper. Definitely not a good sign, though he'd rather finish the work in front of him Judal is so adamant on destroying before he leaves.

"Selfishness? You want me to care what others think of me?" Again with the deflective comments. He will never own up to his own childish arrogance, and Judal won't consider the action of caring for any part of it. "I only complain of the waste of air you are. Sindria doesn't need a king who pushes papers." As if he knows—and to ask, who does he think he is?

Someone who should know better, Sinbad answers for himself. Yet this is typical Judal behavior, so it doesn't receive much attention as the novelty wore off years ago. "If you want entertainment, go back to the Kou Empire and pester them. They should know how to handle you by now." Judal's arms unfold over the paper, already too blurry without the half empty cup of alcohol, something strong, needing to take its effect on him. No, it would take much more than that to finish all of this paperwork. Ten times that to deal with Judal.

The patience of a king is greatly underestimated.

"This isn't about them, you fool." Judal can reach his wand, Sinbad knows of this, and feels his blood start to rise in temperature as Judal blocks him, effectively knocking the ink out of his hand and spilling down the sleeve of his robes to the floor. Black stains only grow, the same color as Judal's humored smile when he finally gets the reaction he wants of anger and annoyance. "They're already used to me, you know? They don't even care about the sacrifices I make for them to be cozy in their little happy empire." Power courses through his veins and the urge stings into Sinbad's palms, reminding himself that with a little bit of alcohol his reins of control may slip but he must not fall for such petty words. Judal is comprised of only words that have no base and no meaning other than to derail important actions and draw amusement from exasperation.

"Leave, Judal." Carefully trying to think of a way to explain the stain—he can burn the clothing, it doesn't really matter when he has two more just like it. But Judal's stain on his day and more importantly clotting the veins in Sinbad's brain with his childish impudence is much harder to explain, more work to process and an angry Ja'far is something he's rather keen on avoiding. "Find someone else to humor you. My country and I are not suitable for your ill humor."

Judal recoils, as if hurt by Sinbad's words which are more truth in exasperation than Judal ever cares to let slide. And for a moment he can let the king believe that he can make use of the dismissal, attempting to head for the door as if finally finished—as if he could ever be defeated so easily, which would be a disgrace to even consider.

No, he doesn't much care for formalities or manners or whatever Sinbad thinks he knows just because he's king. He doesn't even live, just sits around in an office doing paperwork and pretending to listen to the complaints of the idiots he's fooled into living under his direction. And the frustrating part is that he never listens to Judal, who has the least amount of complaints to offer, which isn't fair for a king to ignore when putting a bias of one over the other. He's supposed to _listen_ and act like a king, not sit around and just shrug when ink spills on his arm and over his desk, not shrug him off like one of those concubines that hang around their precious king.

The king of _idiots._ "Am I funny, idiot king?" Judal snaps, grabbing Sinbad's wrists and forcing the damn idiot to look at him already, frustration and anger mixing into fury that rises and flickers in his eyes, perhaps enough for the stupid king to realize what exactly he's missing. "Do I humor you when I talk of a world you do not know of? Tell me, are my stories of what I do— _living_ , that is, bore you to death? Is that the Sinbad you are?" And he lets the moron have it, tightening his fingers into his fingernails digging into hard tanned flesh and the frustration of Sinbad not fighting back. Physically Judal is no match for the blockhead, so fighting back shouldn't be an issue if he can shrug Judal off so easily.

So why isn't he!?

He can't help his own tongue in times like this, where anger boils over and he can feel the rukh crying for something, aching just like he is for a little more bloodshed to fit his soured mood. All because of this fool in a chair, pretending to be enjoying the pathetically miserable life of a desk with papers to read and sign. Judal can't understand how such can be so desirable, unless the moron is blind as well as completely stupid to the point of not caring at all, not with the seven Djinn hanging off him as simple decorations.

"You fool! Of course you wouldn't know what I'm talking about, you're not half the king as you are an idiot. And you're content to have the power you wanted and let it sit and rot, aren't you? So tell me, why are you so affected by my presence? Do I just bore you, or do I make a point that you can actually understand?" His tongue feels like fire and his cheeks burn, slightly but neither are as hot as his insides, burning and moving and crushing, wanting to destroy everything in this tiny office and be done with the listless monotony of a king filing paperwork instead of being a real king. He could settle for putting a dent or two in the supply of ink and paper, anything to slap this moron into existing as something more substantial than the scrape off the bottom of a shoe.

And yet the tables turn. Hands wrap around Judal's bony wrists, reversing their positing and Judal finds his arms firmly planted onto the table, nails threatening to draw blood and his smirk dares him to. The king won't deliver what he wants, Judal knows this far too well, but the look of blind stupidity is gone from his face and replaced with something more spiteful, of irritation toward _him_ when all he's done is waste his time attempting to be helpful and the rest of it wondering why he ever cares.

 _"Go."_ It's not a request—and it won't make Judal any happier. Though with little choice other than to glare right back at the heady stare directed at him, it won't do him any good to keep wasting his free time when (he won't admit any hold of Sinbad's logic) he could be doing something interesting for a change. He can still challenge the gold eyes that are meant to be filled with duty and can only find the interestingly unappealing light of apathy dully focused on him.

It keeps Judal angry even after he leaves the fool's kingdom.

* * *

 _Little series of oneshots, or maybe this is a multi-chapter. I don't suppose I know, I'm currently getting over yet another illness. Did you miss me? Probably not, seeing as I'm not quite prolific in this fandom yet. Ah, that will have to change._

 _Thank you for reading._


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